


The Root of the Tree (the fruit so sweet)

by AngeNoir



Series: AvLand Gift Exchange [1]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Beginnings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:29:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Clint looks back on his life, on the choices that he made or that were made for him, and they all pretty much sucked.</p><p>Until Phil Coulson came into the picture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Root of the Tree (the fruit so sweet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starrie_Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starrie_Wolf/gifts).



It had always been something to set him apart, something that had made it easier for other kids to make fun of him. Clint had never really understood why it was a bad thing, especially considering Barney and dad. Dad was worse than Barney, always, but Barney could have his own special brand of torture. If it would get Arilla out of their clutches, why was it a bad thing that she had wings in every form she took?

Apparently, having a bird daemon meant you were fucked up in some way.

Go figure.

***

The circus was the first place where Clint could be a freak in a pile of freaks, and not have to really worry so much about… well. About Arilla. Not that he hated Arilla – how could you hate part of yourself, something softer and kinder than the rest of you? – but sometimes he resented her, resented the sneers and the scorn she drew on him. On those days, his resentment always burned black in his veins, and she responded by going far away, sitting at the tops of trees or rooms away, making him antsy until he finally relented. Then he would hold her close, run his finger through her feathers, whisper apologies and promises and anything and everything he could think of to make her happy again.

But the circus…

The circus had so many different types of daemons, so many different souls glittering and vibrating, all wrapped up with one another. He didn’t have the only bird daemon – in fact, the fortuneteller Elena had a fierce-looking hawk _and_ the strongman Roberto had a solemn owl.

Barney didn’t like the fact that his completely average squirrel was overshadowed by Arilla, and Clint did his best to make things easier for the both of them.

It was hard, though, because Trickshot only wanted one apprentice. But Clint could be stubborn if he needed to be, and he didn’t want to leave his brother behind. He managed to get Trickshot to take Barney on and teach him useful skills like throwing knives and juggling swords, while Clint went up high on the trapeze and felt exhilaration sing in his bones as he swooped through his air, Arilla laughing and shrieking along with him.

***

Of course it would be too good to last.

***

He was young, but just old enough to squeak into real prison, not juvie. Arilla cowered against his shoulder and neck, and he wasn’t exactly the smartest kid in the bunch, picking fights when he should probably be keeping his mouth shut, and it was going to go very badly for him, he knew it. Prison was not where people went to live; it’s where they went to die, over and over again. He had no affiliations to keep him out of the hands of the tougher prisoners and he was hoping for a miracle, that Barney would be back for him. He’d have to, right? Barney was his brother, and they only had each other. They’d only had each other since dad, since school, since the beginning of the circus, until now, even. It’d been Barney and Clint against the world.

So when he was called into a meeting room he was ecstatic, expecting to see his brother.

“Barton, Clint. 20 years old, last grade completed was 7th, known as the Amazing Hawkeye in the circus, trapeze artist and skilled with various projectile weapons – most famously, the bow – as well as petty thief, red lorikeet daemon.” The man – maybe Barney’s age, maybe a little bit older than that – looked up from the thin file he had in front of him and pinned him with a powerful stare. “I could use men like you, Clint Barton. Namely, my company can use men like you.”

Movement at the man’s shoulder drew Clint’s gaze to the pretty damn big snake that he hadn’t noticed at first. Clint felt Arilla sidle closer to his cheek, silent with fear, and he began to sweat.

“What the hell do you want?” he rasped.

The man smiled benignly at him, which only made Clint more nervous. “I would like you to come work for me on a trial basis.”

“If I say no?” Clint asked.

The man shrugged, shifting the thick snake on his shoulder. “Then you say no. I tell the guards to put you back. You remain here until your time is up – or until, as you hope, someone gets you out. But the question you really should be asking yourself is whether you can survive that long, in either scenario.”

Clint looked at the snake again and tried to consider his options.

Arilla turned her beak to his ear, whispering, “Trial basis?”

“What do you mean, trial basis?” Clint asked, forcing himself to meet the guy’s eyes even though he was scared shitless.

“It means that you’ll get basic training with us. If you don’t make the cut, we’ll either return you here or hand you over to the army. Whichever one’s a better fit for you, honestly.”

Clint tapped a finger nervously against his thigh before saying, “What happens if I make the cut?”

“Then, Clint Barton,” the man said, smile growing more genuine. “Then you’re on my team, and we’ll get a lot of work done that needs doing.”

Arilla nudged his ear again but didn’t say anything. After a few more heartbeats, Clint jerked his head at the snake. “Constrictor?”

“Yes, actually,” the man said, sounding very pleased.

“You got a name?” Clint asked.

Some tension seemed to bleed from the man’s shoulders and he said easily, “Agent Phil Coulson, and Rookward. So you’ll join the team?”

Slowly, Clint nodded. “Yeah, let’s… let’s try it out.”

***

Some twenty years later, lying in bed as Rook lazily curled around Arilla’s perch and sleeping body, Phil snoring on his shoulder, Clint was glad his life had taken the direction it had, that this man had come into his life and shown him more options.

“Babe?” Phil mumbled sleepily.

Clint nuzzled Phil’s forehead. “Nothing, Phil. Go back to sleep.”

Muttering under his breath, Phil obliged.


End file.
